The Last Lesson
by GSR333
Summary: A serial killer with a penchant for torture is loose on the streets of Las Vegas and has an obsession with our favorite CSI's. GSR. Reviews are most welcome.


Staring up at the black sky, the looming figure of the ultra-modern building housing the number-two crime lab in the country casting a shadow over the sidewalk (a sight nightdwellers rarely saw), Sara ruminated. From a tender age-although her time could not easily be described as such-she had adamantly placed her faith in solid fact. Yet the self-proclaimed science nerd had an unfathomable feeling that the ominous weather held a not of forbearing prelude to the night which she was here to start early. Attempting to quench the out-of-character suspicion, she pushed on the door, releasing a hiss of pressure and stepped into the air-conditioned oasis.

Heels clicking softly on the floor she headed towards the evidence storage, stopping shortly at the rather spacious locker room to drop off her purse. She didn't bother to make small talk with the intern handling the evidence for dayshift, who to her trained eye, seemed far to young to be flirting with her, still being within the malicious grip of acne proneness.

Casefile held between her teeth (something that Grissom would surely frown upon later) three evidence cartons piled upon eachother, she blindly attempted to navigate her way towards a workstation, and to her utter dismay was caught by Grissom, head in his own casefile. Papers strewn across the floor (the boxes only tossed haphazardly, their evidence seals still holding tight) they dove to collect the fallen items.

Standing up to return the file, Grissom's placid countenance, now flushed with embarrassment and exertion, flickered with the briefest reprieve of surprise. "Sara, sorry. What are you doing here so early?" he asked.

It rarely ceased to amaze her, even after five years of constant lessons, how abrupt and straight-to-the-point he was with her. At least she could better enjoy the small indulgences of uncharacteristic friendliness that he chose to bestow upon her on rare occasion. "Sorry, couldn't see past the boxes," she explained gesturing towards the containers stacked next to her thigh. "I'm working on the Kollins case," Sara relayed, all the while knowing implicitly that he already knew, especially with the casefile name so prominently displayed.

"Ah yes, you have Greg helping you with that right?" he enquired.

The ubiquitous exchange of 'pleasantries' was better than the cold silence through which she had been suffering as of late so she ran with it. "Yeah. I just have to file the paperwork up on it, and wanted to be ready by the start of shift." Feeling slightly emboldened by the high flush in his cheeks she continued, "Is it even possible to assume that you might actually be working on reviews?" she asked teasingly with a sly smile creeping forth.

"Hmph," he grunted. "Damn supervisory duties. No point to them that I have yet to see," he replied, a lilt to his voice, a rare smile gracing his face, making him appear quite boyish in spite of the masculine beard.

Realization that they were still in the middle of the hallway soon dawned on her, and bending down to retrieve the evidence she hastily bid him goodbye and headed once again towards a layout room, this time proceeding with more caution.

After several hours of tedium, the monotony only broken by many large cups of coffee (and consequently several washroom breaks) Sara finished the report, signing her name as case head. After returning and logging in the evidence- the regular attendant having returned, resulting in a pleasant discussion on the state of affairs in womens fashion- she headed towards the supervisors office. Knocking on the frame, as the door was already opened, she entered into the inner sanctum of Grissom.

Sara often wondered if the ordered disarray of his office was like the state of his mind, seemingly useless things stacked and catalogued in an impervious fashion known only to the beholder. As Sara stood there, eyes having carefully roamed the shelves and landed upon Grissom, he sat slumped in his chair, a look of serious concern etched on his face. The phone was cradled between his ear and shoulder, the right hand seemingly finding contentment in attempting to ease the strain of his neck.

Ending the phone call with a wearisome, "Alright Brass, I'll try to get Swing on it too," he looked up at the slender brunette awaiting his attention, casefile and report in hand. Rubbing a hand across his beard absently he asked, "Done already?"

"Shift starts in five minutes Griss," she replied, the almost ever present lilt to her tone of voice evident.

"Right, sorry. We have a huge case coming our way. One hell of a media frenzy already. We're going to need Swing to help out with this one," he put forth, understanding that Sara might bristle at the thought of Catherine stepping on her newly defined turf, and not realizing that she had borne witness to the end of his previous conversation. He needn't have worried however, the thought of a hot case, worked as it should be, brought a noticeable gleam to her still youthful brown eyes.

"Good, lets get started then," she intoned, placing the file on his desk and turning. He followed shortly thereafter, coffee mug in hand now knowing for sure that the weather hadn't just been an ominous sign.

The old team had gathered around the table, curious looks upon their faces at the urgent request to which Sara had delivered. Catherine stood at the head of the table, idly sipping from her coffee mug wondering how awful the case must be if Grissom needed all of them, and making a mental note to call home and let her mother know that she would definately be home late.

Nick, Warrick and Greg chatted about the latest football game out for the X-Box, and Sara looked at the gathered huddle with a small grin and occasional shake of her head. Grissom cleared his throat, and almost instantaneously the room grew silent and five pairs of intelligent eyes, curiosity evident in each, were aimed at him. Catherine was the first to break the silence, which Grissom thought was as-per-usual as the CSI graveyard shift could get. "So what's the big case Grissom?"

"There's been a DB found in the Freemont district, and as I told Sara, it's a media frenzy already."

Greg spoke up, his confidence as a CSI evident in the change of apparel and hairstyle, not to mention that he could now look his supervisor in the eye. "Not to single myself out as the newbee, but why exactly should a single DB raise such an alarm?"

Grissom's mouth was drawn in a tight line, a sign that Sara had come to recognize as pressure from the bigwigs. "It's the sheriffs wife, and there's a high likelihood that all of our evidence is going to be washed away if we don't hurry up. So let's go, pack up and head out." Grissom ordered.

The team headed towards their vehicles, donning their vests, their kits already in the issued Tahoes awaiting them. Sara lagged behind and asked softly, "You going to be okay?" carefully resisting the urge to lay a comforting hand on his shoulder, all to aware of the possible repercussions.

He looked up, stroked his beard once and released a deep sigh. His eyes held a note of something that appeared slightly accusatory, and he answered with a resigned huff, "I'm fine Sara." Although she wished to pursue it, she let it drop, instead heading out to the waiting Tahoe and Greg. If he wanted to fester in his thoughts without a reprieve so be it, and so in her hasty exit she did not hear the whispered reproach of "As I guess I can be."

She woke up in a frantic spell of nightmarish quality to something even worse then what her subconscious had managed to draw up. She was in a barren room, the only articles the chair upon which she was seated, a potbellied stove glowing red, and a chest in the corner. She attempted to move her arms, but gasped in pain. Looking down at herself she noted that her arms were stuck to the arms of the wheeled chair, as was the rest of her naked body. The civility that she bore cursed silently at this degredation admisdt the rest of thoughts in regards to the situation she now found herself in.

As her mind was about to tip into a frenzy, a young man casually strolled into the room through a door that she had not before noted. She tried to cry out, but her voice faltered, a scratching hiss emanating instead.

"Oh, don't try and yell there. Your voice won't be back for a while yet. But in time I'm sure you'll find some use for it," he explained to her in a patronizing tone.

Somewhere in the back of her mind she cringed at the thought that she had been allowed to see his facial countenance, and in her upheaval couldn't quite place why that was a bad omen. Her eyes followed his movements as he made his way towards the chest, taking note of the slight bowlegged limp in his left leg. He rummaged for several minutes, the time dragging before her fogged mind. Turning, his arms bore several conatiners along with a box of what she could only guess were matches.

Placing the box and two of the containers on the floor he unscrewed the lid off of the one in his hand, careful not to spill any of the liquid. "Sodium Nitrate," he explained to the curious look in her eyes, as if teaching a pupil. She whimpered, the loudest sound that she could make, her eyes now bearing a look of utter terror.

Pouring out a liberal amount of the severely basic solution onto her barren stomach, the skin sizzling and melting at the contact he laughed derisively. "So, Sara, does the truth burn?"

"No Greg, for the last time I don't know why he's such an ass." Sara moaned.

"But I mean come on, sure he's talented but it's not as if he has the right to be such a party pooper all the time." Greg added petulantly.

"Well you know how some people are, they just think that because they have the experience they can be haughty. Maybe he doesn't even know that he's that way. Or maybe that's what they pay him to do."

"I guess. But I still wouldn't want to be judged by Simon's pretentious ass." Greg intoned.

"Right, because you have such a lovely voice," Sara teased, taking her eyes off of the road for a second to look at Greg's spiked countenance. No matter how much he matured he would always have that youthful spark that was his trademark. Or so she hoped.

"Hey, I just so happened to have been the lead singer of a band back in the day," he huffed out.

"Greg, honey, you don't have a 'back in the day'. And leading a band of smartasses around surely does not count," she said lightly laughing soundlessly at the coloration that brightened his cheeks from her 'honey' comment as she turned the burly vehicle into the parking lot filled with every sort of flashing light.

"Well, _babe_, maybe I'll just have to show you sometime." Greg said loudly enough for the rest of the team to overhear and misinterpret as they climbed from their respective vehicles.

Sara's cheeks flushed with the silent accusations of her team members and turning to whisper to Greg she caught Grissom's eye, a slightly bewildered look storming them for a short period. She was still feeling minutely subordinate after his callous rebuke and saying in a tone that made it's way clear to his ears she whispered, "I'd love to Greg. After shift maybe?"

The stunned look on the young mans face was priceless, as was the one mirrored in the older mans. She had to take her fun where she could get it.

TBC


End file.
